The Red Queen

by Meg Xuemei X

  Lucienne’s temper ebbed away at Ash’s touch.

  Vladimir was beside her. He was always fast. As he watched his rival embrace her, his jaw tightened, but he didn’t attack. In the past, he’d have assaulted Ashburn for that, but her condition brought the two of them to an understanding. Vladimir tapped Ashburn on the shoulder to indicate that he could take over hugging Lucienne.

  Ashburn gave Vladimir a sinister glare, but Lucienne extricated herself from him to avoid a further conflict. Vladimir immediately pulled her into his arms, his hands, rough and strong, tight against the small of her back. Lucienne could read his intention to replace Ashburn’s scent with his, and she was momentarily confused by the sudden shift. Both scents were intoxicating, but now wasn’t the best time to make a comparison.

  With clenched fists, Ashburn returned to his seat, his death glare glued on Vladimir. Ashburn was more conservative and considerate. He wouldn’t do anything to provoke her; Vladimir, on the other hand, was reckless even in the most hazardous situation.

  “Will you let me have my breakfast?” she asked Vladimir and he released her reluctantly. She noticed his limp as he went back to his seat, though he was very careful to hide it. The men had beaten him up terribly.

  “Did you get into a fight again?” she asked.

  Vladimir shrugged. “Just a quarrel.”

  “A quarrel?” She stared at him. “They mauled your face.”

  Ashburn looked alarmed again. Lucienne gave him a nod to tell him that she would get hold of herself.

  Vladimir had the nerve to flash a grin at her. “You should see how they look.”

  Ashburn snorted at Vladimir’s bravado. Lucienne could imagine how the men looked and how many men it took to take the prince down. He’d finally admitted it was more than one man. She could guess who the ringleader was—the battle-hardened Finley. He’d hated Vladimir since the Brazil raid.

  Vladimir saw the dangerous glint in her eyes and went rigid, his grin gone. “Lucia,” he said, not forgetting to give her a frown of disapproval. He’d been pretending she was just like before, and that everything was normal. As if by making believe, things would be fine for the two of them. “It was just a fight,” he stressed. “Men are like dogs. Men fight.”

  Ashburn shook his head in disgust and turned to drink his Irish tea.

  Aida stepped through the adjacent inner door with a cart of a full-course breakfast.

  “Ah, Aida,” Vladimir said cheerfully, shifting his attention to the food, “just in time. I’m starving.”

  Aida didn’t look in his direction. It took more than a touch of willpower for her not to poison his food. Had it not upset Lucienne, she just might have done it. The nanny stopped the cart beside her charge. “My sweet girl,” she said, “I made you your favorite omelet.” She laid out several dishes in front of Lucienne, then placed a glass of almond milk on the side. As Lucienne eyed Vladimir’s coffee, the nanny said firmly, “No coffee, Lucia. Doctor’s orders.”

  Lucienne heaved a sigh and gestured for the guards to join her for breakfast, and they eagerly took seats on either side of her.

  “No man can resist Aida’s full English course,” Duncan said.

  “I’m not English,” Aida said. “I’m a Mongolian.”

  “Sorry,” Duncan murmured, “I didn’t mean English. I meant course.”

  “I know what you meant!” said Aida.

  “Uh, your English is very good,” Duncan said. “I can barely hear any trace of an accent.”

  The other guard nodded an impressive approval.

  Aida hissed, “I was raised in Chicago.” She pushed the cart away without the slightest intention of serving the guards, and they traded a glance.

  As Aida strolled past Vladimir, he called, “Slow down, Aida darling. Can I have an omelet too?”

  “I’m not your darling,” Aida said coldly. “You want anything, make it yourself.”

  Vladimir kept his grin, but Lucienne caught fleeting hurt in his hazel eyes.

  Aida stopped again beside Ashburn and placed a plate full of pancakes in front of him. She poured syrup on top of the stack. “More syrup, Ash?” she asked fondly.

  “Yes, please,” Ashburn said. “And thank you, Aida.”

  The nanny drizzled more syrup on Ash’s pancakes, then left the whole bottle on the table directly in front of him. Lucienne watched silently. Aida refused to serve Vladimir, but at least she hadn’t spat on his food or mixed sand in his steak and sandwiches as the chefs in Sphinxes’ castle did.

  Lucienne cut her omelet in half, placed a portion on another plate, and pushed it toward Vladimir. “Share mine,” she offered.

  “Jsi můj miláček,” Vladimir said in Czech, meaning, “You’re my sweetheart.” He cut a piece of creamy spinach omelet and put it into his mouth. “Good stuff,” he said and swallowed it.

  Ashburn glared at Vladimir. Standing behind Ashburn, Aida also looked daggers at the Czech prince. Vladimir took in another mouthful of omelet and moaned as if he were in heaven.

  “Aida is a softie inside.” Lucienne turned to the guards. “She’s made plenty of toasts, bacons, and beans for everyone in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

  “We take turns,” Duncan told a young guard. “And I outrank you.” With that, he rose and exited into the kitchen.

  The guard murmured a complaint.

  Lucienne ignored the tension in the room, determined to enjoy her breakfast. She put a forkful of omelet into her mouth and chewed. It didn’t have the delicious flavor of fine egg, cheese, and spinach. It tasted like rusty metal. Then the smell of blood permeated the air.

  No, Lucienne cried silently, as a heated wave hit her face.

  “No,” she heard Ashburn’s whisper as she looked up from her food and locked eyes on him.

  The wave dragged her toward a pit as she kicked and screamed, struggling to pull free.

  It was gone, leaving her in the center of a sunny room, where everything appeared distorted.

  She blinked in confusion, and everything returned to normal.

  “Oh, gods, it comes more and more often,” an old woman cried. “My sweet girl suffers.”

  She ignored the woman, who posed no threat, but the men surrounding her were warriors. They were young and virile, and she could sense they were always itching for a fight. Tensing up, she grasped a string of beads on her wrist. She never went anywhere without a weapon, and though the beads didn’t seem dangerous, they were lethal in her hands. The enemies who underestimated her had paid dearly.

  “Láska?” A hazel-eyed boy called to her.

  Why did he call her “love” in Czech? She didn’t even know him. Was this some kind of trick to make her lay down her defense? Narrowing her eyes, she plucked three open beads from the string, twirling them between her fingers. Any wrong move from these men, and she’d attack first. She could put down two or three at once.

  “Lucia, we’re your friends.” A silver-haired boy gestured for the others to fall back as he moved toward her like approaching a small carnivore. But she wasn’t small. She was tall and deadly and feeling backed into a corner.

  The men all looked tense, but they obeyed the silver-haired boy and stepped back, their eyes not moving from her.

  The hazel-eyed boy ignored the silver-haired boy’s warning and competed to reach her. A rebel type, she thought. Should she take him down now?

  “Don’t be an idiot, Blazek!” the silver-haired boy hissed at him. “You should not provoke her.”

  The hazel-eyed glared at the silver-haired, but stopped. When he turned back to her, there was tender boldness in his eyes. “I’m not provoking her. I want to show her I’m her boyfriend.”

  Boyfriend?

  She rolled a bead between her fingers as silver-hair growled. He didn’t agree, but one of them could be her boyfriend. Which one, though? The two were clearly rivals and much more likely to attack each other than her. Lucienne loosed a tight breath and tilted her head to study them. They were both strikin
g, yet in opposite ways. It was hard to judge which one was more attractive. Her grandfather warned her not to trust a man, especially a pretty one, and she had two in front of her.

  They both wanted her. The way they looked at her—they knew her well and pined after her. But why didn’t she remember them? She decided it best not to trust either one.

  Then, from a distant memory, a song reached her. The lyric was ancient— a language she couldn’t place. It entranced her. She was a princess in a blooming garden; a moonbeam of gold dust twirled around her. Winged fairies put a crown of delicate flowers on her head before shooting back into the air. A prince stepped into the picture. It was the silver-haired boy. He gazed at her with love, yet she wasn’t sure about her own love for him. Still, her desire for him arose in response to his presence.

  “Ash?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with delight at the recognition.

  “Lucia.” Ashburn blew out a breath.

  She liked the way he said her name, as if she was indeed his princess. He was grateful that she identified him. Fondness toward him swelled in her, and she had an urge to touch him. She put her beads back on her wrist and stepped toward him, but then stopped in her tracks. Maybe she shouldn’t do that. There were so many people around them, gawking at her.

  “Láska,” the hazel-eyed boy called again, trying to step in front of Ash and remove him from her sight.

  She darted her gaze toward him, amused that he was trying so hard to get her attention. Fine, she could give him a few seconds for his effort. As she fixed on him, her eyes widened, not at the nasty cuts on his face, but at the amount of pain in his eyes. Did he lose someone dear to him? Sympathy for him brought back a memory. She realized who he was. He was the real prince, not the other boy.

  “What happened to you, Prince Vladimir?” she asked.

  “I picked a fight,” he said.

  “Why would you do that?” she asked.

  “My opponents were extremely annoying,” he said.

  “You can't fight everyone who is annoying,” she advised. “Soon you'll be fighting the whole world.”

  “Then I'll fight the whole world,” he said.

  He’s a wild card.

  A light illuminated another slice of memory. Why did she keep having fragmented flashbacks? “Vladimir Blazek,” she said. His name associated with so many things.

  He quirked an eyebrow to flaunt his carefree charm, but Lucienne had caught a flash of disquiet in his eyes. Did he often brace for the worst? She wouldn’t doubt that by looking at his swollen face.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” she said matter-of-factly, “‘being extremely annoying’ is what everyone usually says about you.”

  Vladimir blinked. Then there was a spark in his eyes. She used to talk to him like that when they’d met at Desert Cymbidium, her family’s military school.

  “That’s slander,” he said. “Now you see why I had to teach them a lesson and show them the consequences of infuriating me.”

  She cocked her head to the side, regarding his slit bottom lip. “It seems you got the consequences.”

  Ashburn snorted in delight at her mockery of the other boy, as did the men in the room. Lucienne swept her gaze to Ashburn. His hostility toward the Czech prince was like an open furnace. Obviously, he wasn’t thrilled that Vladimir grabbed her attention. Was Ash the one who gave the prince bruises? No, Ash didn't seem like a fighter. He had an air of cold calculation and tight self-control.

  Vladimir followed her gaze and glared at Ashburn, who returned it at full measure. Both desired to give the other a death sentence. Did it have anything to do with her?

  “You two are like a pair of buffaloes,” she said, “ready to charge each other.”

  The boys at once relaxed their poses, evidently not wanting to be regarded as buffaloes, but the muscles in their jaws still twitched in tension. Lucienne giggled at their display, yet they didn’t find it funny. They looked alarmed, which made her giggle more.

  The room was quiet, except for her laughter. The older woman stopped crying and came to pat Lucienne’s back as if afraid of her choking. This compassionate move, as if for a baby after feeding, promoted another of Lucienne’s memories. This woman was her nanny. Feeling a twinge of embarrassment, then irritation, she shrugged off Aida. “I'm a big girl.”

  She then paid no mind to her nanny. Her interests lay with the hot boys. Why did they look so grim? Maybe it was—

  She looked down and saw her white shirt and jeans. The cold, empty white wardrobe enveloped her like a stone coffin. White conjured impending doom. She must expel it with fire. Bright red fire.

  “Where is my red gown?” she asked with a snarl, tearing at her white shirt.

  “I’ll bring it.” The nanny scrambled out of the sun room and returned soon with a red robe in her hand. She covered Lucienne. “Now calm. Here’s your pretty red gown.”

  Lucienne caressed the red velvet, her confidence returning, which put her in a much better mood. She even let Prince Vladimir wrap her in his possessive arms.

  She laid the side of her face on his broad shoulder. From this angle, she glanced up at Ashburn through thick eyelashes. He looked so stunning, and he watched her with a pained, stormy expression, as if he wanted to tear her from Vladimir. Then why didn’t he act on it? She wouldn’t stop him. Did the Czech prince really have a claim on her?

  She scanned the other men in the room to determine their relationships with her. She registered that they were her guards. She twisted away from Vladimir. “Why do I need to be guarded by so many men? Am I in danger?”

  “You’re safe with me,” Vladimir said.

  Ashburn sneered. Lucienne turned to him with a half smile. She didn’t like the prince’s answer either. His conceit didn’t sit well with her, so she decided to pointedly ignore him.

  “Do you like my red dress, Ash?” she purred, flaunting her feminine charm. But her dazzling smile only brought out misery in his eyes. What was wrong with him?

  Vladimir, however, immediately tensed, his muscles bulging on his arms and beneath his black designer shirt. His jealousy was tangible and entertaining.

  “I like anything you wear,” Ashburn said, but he wasn't flirting.

  Vladimir shifted his weight and blocked her sight of Ashburn again. He laid his hand against the small of her back, using a firm touch to draw her attention back to him.

  “You must be hungry, Lucia,” Ashburn said. “Aida made you your favorite omelet.”

  Amusing. Ash was using the primary human need—food—to get her leave Vladimir's arms.

  These boys each wanted to pull her in his direction, but she would show them she was in charge. Then her stomach unexpectedly grumbled. That wasn’t lady-like. She brushed aside her embarrassment. She was hungry. She shoved Vladimir aside and went back to her seat.

  Ashburn gave her an encouraging smile as she cut a piece of omelet and put it into her mouth. It tasted good. Ashburn and Vladimir sat across from her, but neither touched their dishes. Lucienne flicked her gaze between them.

  “They stare at me as if they want to eat me, Aida.” She addressed her nanny, her gaze locked on the boys. “I must be delicious.” She giggled again and flung a seductive look at Vladimir, then at Ashburn. Which one wanted her more?

  But instead of showing desire, their eyes held identical pain and wariness. If it weren’t for the undeniable tenderness dwelling in the depth of their sadness, she’d have thrown her plate at them. They made her feel like she was eating at her own funeral. Suddenly, the memories of attending the funerals of Orlando, Marloes, and her other loyal warriors flooded back. With that piece of memory, grief struck her. No! She wasn’t equipped to deal with that amount of sorrow and guilt. She must put them in a box, as Kian had advised.

  “Where is the box?” she demanded. Grief kept hitting her. It was too much!

  Everyone looked puzzled, and then traded nervous glances.

  Lucienne tossed her fork onto the table. It clanked. “You al
l look at me as if I’m crazy,” she hissed. She was also humiliated that the boys didn’t desire her as she’d wanted. “Did I ask any of you to pity me?”

  “It’s not pity, Lucia,” Vladimir started. “I—”

  “You’re a liar,” she said.

  “Lucia.” Ashburn reached her. “I don’t know about him,” he said over Vladimir’s growl, “but I’ve never lied to you. Look at me and see the truth.”

  She peeked into his eyes. Their color shifted from ice blue to silver gray with thick emotions, which made her pulse quicken. His young male musk distracted her more. It was calling her to him, tugging her toward him. Her eyes brightened. There was something between them, and it was lovely and lush. She put her palm against his face, her anger whiffing away. “I want you, Ash,” she said.

  Ashburn sucked in a breath. She knew he shared what she felt. He wanted her even more than she did him. Then what was he waiting for? Shouldn't he start kissing her?

  Vladimir shoved Ashburn away and cut in between them. “Lucia, you’re tired,” he said. “I’ll take you to your bedroom.”

  “No, you won’t take me anywhere.” She didn’t even look at him, her eyes fixing on Ashburn. “And I’m far from tired.”

  Vladimir turned to Ashburn and gave him a blunt order, “Leave.”

  “Like hell I’ll leave her in your incompetent hands,” Ashburn shot back.

  “She isn't herself,” Vladimir said through clenched teeth. “The thing in you is making her worse.”

  Ashburn turned to Vladimir, eyes narrowed in fury. “The thing in me?”

  Lucienne also glared at the Czech.

  “You know exactly what I mean,” Vladimir said.

  “Who caused her to be like this?” Ashburn asked.

  They talked about her as if she weren’t here, as if she were a weak girl. How dare they! She was …. Who was she? The vague recollection of her role came into focus. She was the Siren? Yes, and a terribly powerful one. She must show them that, but how?

  Something in her consciousness twinkled, but then slipped through her grasp. She studied the boys closely, desperate to find clues. The veins in Vladimir’s temples jumped. Guilt and self-loathing darkened his hazel eyes, diminishing the remaining light in them—it was scarce already. The guilty one, she realized. Ash had said Vladimir had caused her harm. If so, he deserved to be punished, but she needed to find out what kind of harm he’d done her.